There was still plenty of time for the weather to turn cold again, but for now, early spring, the day was wonderfully clement. A soft rain in the morning gave way to a kind of creamy egg sunshine and shirt-sleeve warmth. The sidewalks were busy. The guy found a curbside spot for his car on Alder and walked the two blocks to the girl's apartment.
Her name was Valerie. He met her at the Pet Pad the day before, a place he stopped by every week or so, but she must have been new because this was the first time he'd ever seen her there, running the register. A petite Asian girl with straight, ombred hair pulled back in a tie, her navy polo with the Pet Pad logo stitched over her left breast, a pin that said "Valerie" over her right, khakis. He thought she was gorgeous, and the kind of girl—based on his experience—he would have to see, like, 20 times before he found the courage to say more than "please" or "thank you" to. Twenty times with no flirtation so he didn't seem weird before she would acknowledge that she recognized him, making his bi-weekly canned cat food run or litter pail refill. Then maybe he could say, one time, "How are you doing today," or even, "Hey Valerie." Like they now sort of knew each other.
But it didn't take twenty times. She scanned his Pet Pad card and then the bar codes on each of the twenty cans of Fancy Feast and then the $5 coupon in an email he printed off. With his coupon and discounts, the whole purchase totaled less than six dollars.
"Wow," said the girl. "That's a lot of cat food for six bucks." She double bagged all the cans in a plastic Pet Pad sack and handed it to him.
"Yeah," he said. "Good deal."
She said, "So how many cats do you have?"
"I don't have any cats," he said, swiping his Amex card, giving her a deadpan look.
She looked at him, cocked her head a little, like she was taking him in now.
"I'm going to go out front and smoke a cigarette in five minutes," she said.
And that was it, the easiest meet ever. A cute-meet, like they said in the movies. Despite that, he had a feeling about this one. It was different. Not different like it was too easy, or that there was something hinky going on. Different like meeting-someone's-gaze-across-the-room different. Kismet different.
Then he thought that he was letting himself get carried away and he needed to back off because it wouldn't be the first time he let his imagination get the better of his reason. He would think he caught a vibe, or believed that there was a look—anything like that—only to discover that whatever he was imagining wasn't even close to being real.
Still, even if it turned out to be just a hook up, he would be okay with that, too, he told himself.
Her apartment was in a building that had a dry cleaning business at street level. She buzzed him in and he took the steps to the second floor, found the number that was next to the name "V. Gates" on the intercom, and knocked. He'd brought flowers.
A red-haired girl with a big smile opened the door. "You must be Daniel," she said, and he smiled back.
The redhead was gorgeous, too. She had one hand on the door, the other on the doorjamb. She was wearing a pair of denim cut-offs, blindingly short, and what he knew enough to know was a peasant blouse. Yolked with little embroidered flowers, neckline off her marvelously freckled shoulders, and—obviously plain from the backlighting—nothing underneath. Her legs were long and pale, and she was barefoot. Definitely a hippie thing going on, but clean, well-scrubbed. So, Valerie had a hot roommate with, he couldn't help but note, long legs and very nice tits. He was doing a quick evaluation in his head of what advantages there could be to this, and he couldn't think of one.
She stepped back and made a sweeping gesture with her arm inviting him in. The apartment also had a definite hippie vibe. It smelled mostly of incense—sandalwood, he recognized it but couldn't remember the name at first—but with definite grace notes of weed. A sagging little sofa was covered with quilts. There was a big orange beanbag chair. A coffee table made from a pine plank atop two plastic Taylor's Dairy milk crates. A framed poster of a bygone Grateful Dead Fillmore show. There was what looked to be a vintage stereo system, two big speakers angled in the room's two back corners. A formidable looking Marantz receiver and (really?) an equalizer and turntable on top of a low console table that was lined, underneath, with lots of vinyl. Groovy, he thought. Dig it.
Valerie walked into the room with a tall can of PBR, and his stomach did a funny little lurch. She was wearing gray, cut-off sweat pants, the leg hems curling, and a Steelers jersey with the number 58 on it that had also been cut into a crop top. Did these girls slice up all their clothing? Slim, cashew-colored legs and a smooth but modest swath of flat stomach. Her ombred hair was untailed now and hung around her shoulders.
"V. Gates," he said.
"Fine, thank you," she said.
"Sorry, I guess you've probably heard that plenty," he said.
"Only, like, for decades," she said.
He said, "These are for you," and handed her a half-dozen pale yellow tulips wrapped in green tissue.
"Let's trade," she handed him the beer and took the flowers. She said, "You met my roommate Joey."
"Not formally," he said. "Hi, Joey."
"I will be shortly," said the redhead who was now back by the console, bent over and looking for something, her plump tits swaying in a detailed, breathtaking dangle in the sunlight filtering through her sheer blouse. She emerged with an old Dutch Masters cigar box.
Valerie told him to sit. When he looked around, she pointed to the center of the old sofa and said, "Here." She plopped down next to him, on his left, and curled up, tucked her legs up under her bottom. He sipped his beer, which wasn't very cold. He offered her some.
"I've got one started somewhere," she waved it away. "I'll get it in a minute."
Music swelled from the speakers. He could feel it vibrate up through his feet. No shit, Pink Floyd, he thought. Joey came around from behind the sofa and sat down on his other side. She set the cigar box on her lap. She pinched pot from a baggy and massaged it between her thumb and forefinger, sifting it into a creased paper. Daniel watched her for a moment and then offered her his can of beer.
"I only smoke," said Joey, not looking up, paying attention to her work. She said, "So, Daniel... Where are you from?"
"Here," he said.
"Our sofa?" said Joey.
"Pittsburgh," he said. "Here."
"I'm teasing you, Daniel," said Joey. He felt Valerie touch his hair, brush it back behind his ear. He turned to her.
"How about you?" he said.
"From?" said Valerie. "I was born in Tokyo. My father was American, he moved us here when I was ten. To San Francisco."
"I'm from San Mateo," said Joey.
Daniel said, "So how did you all end up in Pittsburgh?"
"We moved around," said Joey. "Nudged ourselves further east."
"We like the boys here," said Valerie.
"Well," said Daniel, "you have good taste," sipping his beer. Both girls laughed. Then Joey flicked a butane lighter that shot up a flame as long as his index finger and ignited the joint she'd just finished rolling. It crackled softly as she inhaled.
Valerie said, "So what do you do, Daniel?"
"Well," he said, looking down at his hands in his lap, "I work in technology."
